Actively Wondering Every Day

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So my son and I saw Logan a couple nights ago, and I mentioned on Twitter that I nearly walked out about ten minutes in. What I didn’t add was that I wanted to walk out and throw up. Neither the urge to walk nor the queasiness happened because the film did anything wrong for me. Instead, it was because the film depicted something so incredibly well, I took the gut punch before I even knew it was coming.

So this is not a review. It’s a reaction. Mild spoilers shall follow in this post, and might show up in comments should folks choose to chime in.

First, a review-ish thing unrelated to the gut punch: The fight scenes are incredible, and not because they’re all fancied up with slow-motion or odd lingering close-ups or flashy weapon manipulation that actual fighters won’t bring to an actual fight. No, my darlings, the fights in Logan are logical and smart. They are swift. They are economical. And those are the two traits a fighter who is experienced—and, frankly, plagued by a lifetime of scars and reduced stamina—will demonstrate in real life. Fighters who survive don’t become flashier as they age. They become efficient.

Now for the gut punch.

Many people have mentioned the aspect of abuse and trauma survivorship. I was hit with something else early in the film.

Tuesday night, my dojo secretary called to say she'd be in late because police had blocked off her street, big-city media was clogging everyone's driveway, and a helicopter was circling overhead while a forensics team and cadaver-sniffing dogs stood by waiting to excavate a neighbor's yard in an effort to find the body of a woman who'd disappeared years ago.

Yeah, pretty unique excuse for being late.

Well, as of yesterday, that neighbor confessed to strangling that woman (his girlfriend at the time) and burying her in his backyard. For this town of population 18,000--where the majority of the 40-something population went to high school with this guy--it's been quite a shock.

With my women's class last night more than a little thrown by the whole thing, I opted to work with them on what to do if someone is trying to choke you. The short version: don't waste time trying to pry their hands from your neck. Go for the eyeballs first, kick knees or groin next, and if those fail and/or are out of reach, rip off the fucker's pinky finger. Longer version: you'll have to come to class for that.

This is the weekend for editing and nitpicking, which is a good thing. Were this the weekend for spending money, I'd be out of luck. That said, I've just enough my pocket for Dev and I to see Guardians of the Galaxy, and I deeply and truly need to see a badass raccoon today.

And right now, I'm writing this while looking out my living room window--I just washed them inside and out, so it's worth looking out of now--at a stunning blue sky, dark green trees and bright green fields, and there's a touch of white cloud just peeking over the treetops. Really beautiful. I should wash my windows more often.

I suppose I could stretch that into some life-defining metaphor but, really, who has the time for that?

I'm watching Mystic River this morning. I do so love this movie, for so many reasons. The experience is somewhat marred by Gambit's seemingly insatiable urge to make his new dog toy squeak. Even Ty is trying to ignore him.

I had end-of-the-world dreams last night of Walking Dead variety, set in one of my dream-brain's stock locations. (It's as if my sleeping self decided it had already put enough effort into set-building and would rather focus on other dream elements from now on.) This one was the brick-terraced garden that at first looks like an over-built university campus, but opens in the back to endless cultivated rolling hills crisscrossed with barbed wire fences beneath a huge set of power lines. I don't remember much about the dream, but do remember a single scene in a greenhouse, when almost-thirteen-year-old Ty Handsome the Wonderdog leapt onto a shelf as high as my shoulders just so he could lick my face. Which is, when you think about it, a pretty nice thing to remember from a dream about rampaging zombies.

And it's worlds better than the dream I had last week--the dream in which I'd been shot in the head, and was stumbling around in search of help. Everyone I met acknowledged that yes, I had been shot in the head. But the usual response was, "But you look like you're doing all right, so no problem," and a return to whatever had been occupying the person before I arrived.

This is my second week of vacation. Most of the first was spent catching up on everything domestic. I scrubbed my house top to bottom, end to end--a task I tend to do in autumn rather than spring--then reorganized some stuff in the garage, purged extra stuff, and sorted out financial information. I did also write a little, but not too much.

That's what this week is for.

Well, it's also for hosting my nephews on Monday and Tuesday so they can see their father--who can rarely find time in his currently-unemployed=but-supported-by-pregnant-girlfriend schedule to see them--over New Year's Eve. I plan to continue my goal to become Auntie Awesome by cooking homemade doughnuts and the like. Before and after, I'll also be trying to cram in visits with friends I haven't seen in far too long. And on Friday, I'll head to downtown Indy with a friend who is thrilled to teach me about geocaching in the city. We'll do some caching, then head to the Slippery Noodle for dinner and music. Best of all, everything in that Friday trip is research for Crossroads!

So... That's it. Nothing all that exciting. Not even a 2013 retrospective or 2014 goal-setting. Maybe I'll get to that later.

Yesterday, we missed what is usually our first dog show of the season. It would have been nice for Gambit to have his first run at the little local show, but said show is always poorly organized. Neither of us was in the mood for a thirteen hour ordeal, and we had plenty of other things to keep us busy. We worked the dogs at home instead. Ty is getting bored with practice these days, though he still gets excited at shows. Gambit thinks it's all great fun.

For the first time in years, I participated in a karate demonstration during a belt promotion. Usually I'm the one running the promotion, so it was nice to sit back and simply enjoy it. I performed the kata Jitte--short, but heavy on the body mechanics I needed to learn--and was okay with it. Later in the promotion, Sensei called me up to do some throws. Didn't know I'd be doing that as well! Overall, it was much fun.

Dev and I managed to get to the movies last night for Dark Shadows. It was fun in the worth-seeing-once sort of way. Sometimes I felt like I was watching a play about week before opening--when the timing is almost right, but the actors need a night or two with an audience to get it really right.

We're off to my folks' house for barbecue this afternoon. Part of me would much rather stay home to garden and write.

And from the list of Arguments I've Had With Doctors comes research now published in the Journal of the American Medical Association: Probiotics do indeed reduce the intestinal side effects of antibiotics. Alas, I don't anticipate many prescriptions to come with that information. But it does give me yet another article I can give to a client--and the doctor--when said doctor calls such advice woo-woo stupidity.

I took Dev to see The Avengers this afternoon. When the screen finally went black, I wanted to sit in the theater shouting "Again! Again!" until the next showing. Shakespeare in the park, Galaga, glowsticks and shwarma--what could be more wonderful?

I might even write more about it later, if my brain isn't fried from karate class. Speaking of, I must now don my white pajamas...